


Grey

by commodorecliche



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Breaking Up & Making Up, Established Relationship, Fog, Holding Hands, Hurt/Comfort, JeanMarco Week, Kissing, Kissing in the Rain, Love, M/M, Mending Relationships, Rain, jeanmarco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 17:39:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4272120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commodorecliche/pseuds/commodorecliche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their apartment is grey. Mostly grey, at least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grey

**Author's Note:**

> Jeanmarco Week - Day 6, July 4 - "Raindrops"

When Jean wakes, it’s still early.

Their apartment is grey. Mostly grey at least. Greyish-blue and faded, as if it were something out of an overly filtered photograph, and Jean loves the fogginess of it all.

Or he used to, at least.

When he wakes and absently reaches across the sheets, he finds without much surprise that the bed is empty. It’s empty like it was the night before, the week before, the month before. And he sighs. He sits up groggily, the sounds of his breath and the rustling sheets kept company only by the steady pattering of rain pelting against the windows.  

He had always loved mornings like this – soft and easy, with warm sips of coffee and hand-holding in the muted softness of their home. And he misses those things, now. Because he still tries to love mornings like this, but it’s never the same waking up alone. Coffee doesn’t taste sweet in the grey anymore, and the quiet feels desolate in ways it never used to. But it’s been months now, and eventually, he has to move on.

Eventually, it has to get better.

That’s what they tell him, at least.

**::**

He showers alone. Eats breakfast and drinks coffee alone. He reads and finishes up a few reports alone. And it may be unpleasant and listless, but Jean never was one to let himself fall behind. He lives on as best he can, because it’s what you have to do.

His elbows on the kitchen table, Jean turns to stare out the window. It’s dreary outside, and normally, it would be his excuse to stay inside. He’d stay inside with Marco, if only to hide away from the day and pretend – just for a little while – that with the two of them encased in rain, the world was theirs alone. But there’s a living, breathing realm beyond the windowpane, and Jean knows it. Obscured by dripping raindrops and a little bit of fog, he knows the city still breathes beyond the glass.

Jean’s not entirely sure how long it’s been, exactly; long enough, he supposes. He hasn’t seen Marco’s face in ages, it feels like. And he’s sure that it’s been long enough that things should be getting better by now. Long enough that he should love the rain again.   

But he doesn’t. Not yet, anyway.

Now when Jean tells people that he hates the rain, it’s never the full truth. Because he doesn’t hate the rain – he was always mildly in love with its beauty, its constancy. But there’s a fine line between love and hate – and it’s a tired cliché, but frustratingly true – and Jean just can’t love it the way he used to. Because Marco always loved the rain. Marco loved the rain in all the same ways Jean did. Marco kissed him in the rain, made quiet poetry in the rain – lips wet and soft and murmuring slick hymns against his mouth.  

Marco loved Jean in the rain, and Jean just wants things to get better.

Because Marco probably still loves it, even if Jean doesn’t anymore. And that alone aches enough for Jean to lie to himself and tell the world he hates the rain.

 _“It can’t rain all the time…”_ Bertholdt likes to tell him. And maybe he’s right. But it’s starting to feel like it does. And maybe once upon a time, he would have been happy about it. But not now.

Jean doesn’t know what went wrong.

Their apartment is grey. Mostly grey, at least. Greyish-blue, like something half-remembered from a worn-out photograph.

It looks old and faded in the dreariness of the day – just a poor memory of what once was.

But Jean lives on. Because it’s what you have to do.

**::**

When Jean leaves, it’s still raining. He doesn’t bring an umbrella, doing his best to ignore the drops that fall and settle in his hair.

He tells himself he’s going to the store, but doesn’t drive anywhere close to it.

Jean isn’t exactly sure why he doesn’t just go where he had planned on going. Instead, he drives through streets that are littered with puddles, with houses that line the road, encased in fog and bleakness. He doesn’t turn the radio on – listening instead to the way the rain patters against his windshield, the light squeaking of the wipers as they try to push the water aside, and the sounds his tires make as they trudge along wet asphalt.

Jean might have loved this once.

He doesn’t know why he goes where he goes. But when he stops outside the house, he can’t bring himself to get out. He stares up from the street through windows beaded up with rainwater – the bright, red door to the house distorted amongst the droplets – and he thinks. He tells himself to leave. Because you have to live on. It’s what you have to do. But he doesn’t leave.

Turning off the car, Jean opens his door and steps out into the rain.

He isn’t sure what to do, either. Because he can’t go up and knock, but he can’t bring himself to leave either. And so instead, he stands in the rain, his clothes and hair and skin steadily taking on more and more water, and Jean wonders if this is what drowning feels like: quiet, gentle, and faded.

 

He doesn’t know why he came here, or what he thought this might do for him. Because he was alone yesterday and the day before that and the day before that. And he lives on, because he has to.

_“It can’t rain all the time, Jean.”_

But maybe Jean wants it to, because he always loved the rain. And Marco loved the rain. And Jean wants to think he hates the rain now because it reminds him of all the ways that Marco loved him. But he can’t hate it.

Instead, he lets it soak him through as he stares at the red door he can’t bring himself to knock on.

He should probably leave, and he knows it. And he’s almost ready to, hand already gripping the door handle. But as he opens it, the sound of the red door opening catches his attention.

Standing in the doorframe, just barely shielded from the downpour, stands Marco.

Jean should go. The car door is open, and the interior is getting a little wet, but Marco is still in the doorway and looking out at him. And Jean can’t make himself leave.

Because, god, it’s been so long since he saw Marco’s face outside of just a photograph.

“Jean?” Marco calls into the rain gently.

When Jean doesn’t answer, Marco simply leans slightly against the door frame, crossing his arms over his chest. Jean should leave, and he knows it. Because this is over. It’s been over. And Jean was sort of living on, because he was sure it was what he had to do.

But through the sheets of rain between them, Marco looks like he always did. And Jean just can’t leave.

“Jean… Come in out of the rain.” Marco calls out, voice still calm and tender as it always was.

And Jean doesn’t know why, but he does.

**::**

The house is grey. Mostly grey, at least. Dim and unlit, it hardly feels lived in, even though Marco’s been renting it for at least a few months now. Jean feels out of place here, and yet Marco doesn’t seem like he belongs here either. Jean stands in the foyer, clothes and hair dripping a small pool of water on the hardwoods beneath him, and he feels out of place.

“You’re soaked.” Marco tells him, as if Jean hadn’t known that already. But before he can reply, Marco’s disappeared, and Jean isn’t sure if he should follow or stay where he is.

He should probably stay where he is.

He stays and stands in the foyer, looking at the empty walls that perhaps had once held happy photographs when other people have lived here. There’s nothing on them now but nail holes and faded marks from frames that had once been there.

He thinks of the hallway of their, no, _his_ apartment, and thinks of all the pictures that still line the walls because Jean hadn’t wanted to look at them long enough to pull them down. And he wonders if Marco had wanted to hang any photographs and simply decided not to.

When Marco returns, it’s with a towel in hand. He offers it to Jean wordlessly, and Jean accepts, noting to himself that it’s the towel that had always been his favorite. He wondered where it had gone when Marco moved out.

Jean dabs gently at his arms with the towel, but the rest of him is still dripping. Marco quickly grabs it from Jean’s hands, slinging it around Jean’s shoulders to encase him. He rubs his hands along Jean’s arms and shoulders, drying him as best he can.

He’s close, much too close. And Jean can’t look at him.

With Jean’s shoulders dried off as much as possible, Marco moves the towel further north, dragging the slightly damp cloth over Jean’s hair softly. His touch is familiar, unrestrained as if it hadn't been a month, two months, however fucking long it had been since they'd touched or even seen each other.

As the towel drapes over his head, Jean looks at the floor. Partially an attempt to give Marco better access to his dripping locks, but mostly so he doesn’t have to look at him. He clears his throat, because at the very least, he feels like he should say something.

“I uh… I don’t know why I came…”

“It’s okay.” Marco says, as if Jean’s words had been an apology.

Maybe they had been.

Marco pulls the towel off Jean’s head, and moves it around in his hands, trying to find a dry corner to use. When he does, he places his fingers on Jean’s chin and lifts his head. He dabs at the droplets littering Jean’s face as tenderly as he can, no words between them, comfortable and easy, like everything they’ve ever done.

Jean isn’t sure what went wrong, if anything at all.

He stares at Marco’s face – watches the little creases and crinkles of his skin as he focuses, concerned enough to try to make sure he’s drying up all the wetness he can. And Jean feels his heart ache.

Marco sighs gently.

“Hate the rain…” the brunet mumbles with a shrug. And Jean can only stare at him, because Marco has never hated the rain.

Marco drops his arm quickly once he’s sure that he’s dried Jean as much as possible.

“Makes me think of you,” is all Marco says before turning away to hang the towel on one of the empty coat hooks.

“Me too…” Jean says, simply because he can’t think of anything better.

Marco turns back to look at him, but doesn’t step closer. Jean crosses his arms over his chest, shielding himself from god knows what. But he shrugs, glancing down at the floor once more.

“I miss you, Marco.”

Jean regrets saying it immediately. Because he’s supposed to be letting this go. He’s supposed to be getting used to this – learning to love the grey and the fog and the rain again without Marco. But he can’t help himself, because, sure, maybe he’s pushed through this so far. Maybe he’s managed to live on during these last couple months… But he loves this man.

And maybe love isn’t enough in the long run, but Jean doesn’t really care.

Maybe he can live on if he has to: it’s what you have to do sometimes.

But he doesn’t want to. Not without Marco.

He doesn’t want to hate the rain.

He wants to remember fresh, wet kisses and the smell of wet skin. He wants to remember smiles and laughter as the two of them got soaked to the bone.

He doesn’t want to have to _relearn_ how to love.

Marco sighs, hangs his head a little.

“Yeah. I know,” he pauses and speaks on his breath, “I miss you too.”

There is silence that reigns between them, and Jean wonders if perhaps this is his cue to leave. Because maybe Marco still loves him – maybe Marco never stopped loving him – but it just might not be enough anymore. He thinks to himself and stares at his feet, telling himself silently to just turn and leave; to let Marco be to live his life, to live on, to learn to love the rain again. But he can’t.

When Marco steps back close to him, Jean doesn’t expect a hug. But Marco’s arms wind around him none the less, dragging his still-soggy form in close and enveloping him. It takes him a moment, but he finally makes himself move, arms lacing around Marco’s middle, face steadily pressing against the camber of his neck as Marco holds him tighter.

“You’re getting wet…” Jean mumbles, his arms and hands unintentionally clinging just a fraction harder to Marco as he does so.

“I know.” Marco says back, tilting his head a bit to rest it more fully against Jean’s neck.

And Jean aches, because it’s been so long since they’ve had closeness like this. His fingers curl a bit, pressing into Marco’s body just a little more, if only because he’s scared to let him go.

He stares down the hallway, down through the house. It’s still dim and dreary out, rain still pelting down, tiny pitter-patters against the windows and the siding. And Jean clings a little harder to Marco.

The house is grey. Mostly grey, at least. And once upon a time, he and Marco used to love these sorts of days.

Jean wants to ask to try again. He wants to tell Marco he’s sorry for whatever drove them apart. He wants to tell Marco so many things, about how he’s felt and how they could maybe do things better if they got a second chance. But,

“I love you, Marco,” is all that comes out of his mouth instead.

Because he does.

“I love you too,” Marco tells him in return, his embrace not faltering when he does.  

**::**

This house is grey. Mostly grey, at least. Greyish-blue and a little bit faded, and Jean wonders if perhaps the grey will feel warm again soon.

Lying in Marco’s bed – still clothed and a little bit wet – Marco rests his head atop Jean’s chest. Raindrops pelt at the glass windowpanes, soft little pitter-patters calling out through the place like a memory of what once had been. But it feels a little bit better.

Not alright, not okay, though, not yet.

But Marco is holding his hand, skin a little wet still from Jean’s clothes. And Marco is craning his head up just slightly to kiss Jean gently – chaste, and innocent – because they’ve always loved days like this together.

And even in the grey, some things just don’t fade away.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Bless Jeanmarco Week. 
> 
> Thank y'all for reading. As usual, comments, likes, reblogs all are very much appreciated! 
> 
> You can find a rebloggable version **[HERE](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com/post/123246755583/grey-jeanmarco-week-2015-day-6-july-4)**. 
> 
> And you can find me on tumblr here: [commodorecliche](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com).


End file.
